


Moderation

by Anonymous



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Chubby Breakdown, Chubformers, Fluff, Food Porn, M/M, No Sex, Size Difference, Stuffing, Weight Issues, implied weight gain, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It is taught in Iacon's hallowed medical schools that the processor uses 40% of the average grounder's fuel.To congratulate his conjunx after a tricky exam, Breakdown cooks a few dishes from the old planet; Knock Out overdoes it.
Relationships: Knock Out/Breakdown
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21
Collections: Anonymous





	Moderation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fuel Shortage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328580) by Anonymous. 



> Written for the Tumblr flashfic request “knockout (could be your knockout from fuel shortage, or just knockout in general) gets stuffed by breakdown and thoroughly enjoys it.”
> 
> Set roughly during Chapter 4 of Fuel Shortage, but can be read alone.

“Made a little something for you.” Breakdown’s voice was warm and rich as sweet-crude.

After the dizzying cold, the warmth of the habsuite made him shiver and blink; the fiery, salty taste of the air jangled on his chemoreceptors. Knock Out took three steps and collapsed into the berth. “Applause, Breakdown. I’ve earned it.”

His faceplate tingled with radiation. With his optics offline and his mind leaden, he might’ve been back in Delta.

Breakdown chuckled, clapping. His steps shook the habsuite; his new chair scraped loudly across the floor. “Get up or I’ll eat all this myself.”

Knock Out snuggled into the smooth hollow Breakdown’s body had worn into the berth. It smelled of diesel and copper: his favorite.

A joor before he’d been revved, his mind bursting with half-memorized facts; he’d typed so fast the monitor had struggled to keep pace. His keyboard had clattered like machine gun fire—

He’d earned, he felt, a night’s recharge. He stretched out an arm, meaningfully. “Bon appetit, Breakdown. I want to feel that big tummy growl—”

He’d taken to recharging atop Breakdown, who filled the berth now; Breakdown recharged better on a full belly, and through the soft mountain of stomach mesh Knock Out could feel his tanks gurgle, soothingly. As if he were growing thicker by the cycle.

He was too tired to block out the thought; it lingered teasingly, as spicy and dangerous as the smell of uranium. His favorite.

His own tank whined, traitorously. He’d eaten two condensed gels before the exam and slurped a shot of Stim-En. ( _ Strictly _ forbidden, of course, but what monkey-wrench of a medical student didn’t use it?) His nerves—his  _ anticipation, _ he corrected himself—had allowed him nothing else.

Breakdown’s massive fingers found his stomach, kneading so gently through the plating. “Running on empty there.”

His hands felt like bliss. Knock Out flashed a rude gesture, rolling over.

The table and countertops were stacked high with broths and foil dumplings. Every cube they owned seemed to clutter the table; magnesium chunks floated temptingly, gleaming, in thin soups tinted yellow by uranium salts.

Knock Out bit down a moan.  _ Capacity: 19%. _

“Scrap.”

“Heard you got the third-highest score—”

“98th percentile,” Knock Out cut in, wearily. Oral lubricant welled up in his mouth, coating his intake. He felt half-starved. “Just one cube won’t do any harm.”

Breakdown leaned back, giving his belly room. (The urge to bury his faceplate in it, to recharge with his head in Breakdown’s lap, flickered through Knock Out’s mind.) “Sure you’ll stop at one?”

“You’re on.” Knock Out grinned—sleepily—a racer’s grin. A daredevil’s grin.

Breakdown laughed that infectious laugh. He reached for the first bowl. “C’mere. I’ll feed it to you.”

All of his fantasies were coming true at once, it occurred to Knock Out. Next he’d win the Ibex Cup.

He kept his faceplate cool. Impassive. Knock Out sprawled into Breakdown’s comfortable lap, settling onto well-padded thighs.

His exhausted mind wandered, as if a semester’s knowledge had drained out. Instead he wondered—and it brought a feverish, embarrassed warmth to his cheeks—how it felt to be so  _ big. _

Breakdown didn’t realize—couldn’t know—how luscious he was. How the soft churn of his overindulged tanks drove Knock Out mad with frustration—

Breakdown got to stuff himself  _ full. _ Breakdown was scandalously heavy, and lately he seemed to flaunt every kilogram.

Knock Out’s tank whined again. He felt suddenly faint.

“Knock Out. You with me?” Breakdown nudged him with his knee.

“Just resting my optics.” They’d gone offline; he’d scarcely noticed. “One cube,  _ garcon. _ Chop-chop.”

At his Old Polyhexian, Breakdown laughed, gratifyingly. “Bottoms up.”

The spoon pressed against his lips. Lazy as a pampered Councilor, Knock Out opened his mouth, and spicy broth flooded his intake. His chemoreceptors sang.

“Not  _ bad.” _ He coughed, fans sputtering to life. “Bit heavy on the mercury sauce. But not bad at all, chef.”

The second swallow went down sweetly, and the third, a fiery warmth spreading from his tanks through his body. His fuel lines tingled.

The broth tasted faintly unfamiliar, the spices earthier: perhaps Breakdown had adapted it to Iaconian ingredients, or to his own palate. Still he slurped it down. Comfort in a cube, he thought, nestling against Breakdown’s warm stomach; Breakdown’s engine rumbled rhythmically.

Before Knock Out knew it, Breakdown’s spoon was scraping the bottom of the cube.

“Lemme pour you a drink.” Breakdown shifted, the chair scraping. Before Knock Out could protest—his processor felt leaden—bottles clinked, and something glugged into a glass.

At the smell of the Engex, lubricant welled up in his optics.

“Get the taste of my cooking outta your intake.” Another hearty laugh. “Here you go.”

Blindly Knock Out took the cube, half-rising; Breakdown’s big hands found the small of his back. Knock Out settled against him with a contented rev, sliding his free hand around Breakdown’s girth.

“To moderation.” He raised the glass. “Wherever it is.”

His usual toast. Breakdown groaned, but affectionately; Knock Out could live with that.

The Engex was dry, just how he liked it, and the cube straight from the cold storage. First he sipped it, prim and elegant; a cycle later he was gulping it down, in cold mouthfuls that seemed to wash through his whole frame. He shivered.

He’d not eaten so well in a quartex. Knock Out felt richer than Ratbat.

“When I get that pesky license, Breakdown, we’ll drink Nightmare Fuel and Betelgeusian brandy every night.”

“I drink Visco and Engex every night now,” observed Breakdown, pouring himself a drink. “Cheers.”

“Down the hatch.”

They clinked their glasses; as one they swallowed, and Knock Out felt his fuel lines swell and stiffen. His tank was filling, slowly, its cool weight pressing ever so lightly against his engine block. A disconcertingly pleasant sensation.

He settled back, lounging in Breakdown’s lap, his optics still offline. “Waiter? I’m ready for my second course.”

Without looking, he could envision Breakdown’s smug grin. “Anything you say.”

The dumplings’ foil wrappers crackled in his mouth, the soft Energon-paste sweet and rich. A fattening delicacy; after his most furious races he’d permitted himself a plate. 

Now Breakdown handed him one after another, and Knock Out dunked them in broth and sucked out the warm paste. Each bite filled his tank a little more, the odd weight in his stomach growing.

“Funny little fact, Breakdown. The processor uses 40% of the daily fuel—”

“News to me. Mine’s pretty small.”

Self-deprecating humor. Something Breakdown shared only with him. Knock Out paused with a dumpling halfway to his mouth, half-smiling. “Burned a few kilojoules taking that exam. I say I’ve earned this.”

And he’d been training almost nightly. A dumpling or two wouldn’t hurt.

Breakdown’s dumplings were coarser than the ones he remembered, the paste lumpy and the foil folded clumsily. A crying shame—but he’d improve, Knock Out knew, with practice.

The sweetness was growing cloying, and the rich paste sat uneasily in his tanks. Knock Out’s belly groaned, unexpectedly, a long hollow sound. His optics flew open; his face felt suddenly ice-cold.

“Pardon.” In a sharper tone: “You didn’t hear that.”

He felt suddenly as gluttonous as—well, as Breakdown, whose overfed, gurgling tanks lulled both of them to sleep nightly. Humiliating to hear the same sound from his own tanks. He was blanching, he knew.

Breakdown laughed, his crooked smile showing teeth. “Hear what? Need something to wash ‘em down?”

It sounded so reasonable. “Might be wise. Settle the system.”

The next course was another soup, its surface slick with iridescent oil. Breakdown handed Knock Out the full cube; etiquette demanded drinking it.

The richness coated his mouth. Knock Out slurped it down, ignoring—as best he could—the dangerous, cool weight in his belly. He licked spicy oil from his lips. Hiccuped. He’d drunk too fast.

Matter-of-factly Breakdown patted his back.

“Thank you, Breakdown.” He hiccuped again, his armor clicking. At some point it’d slid out of alignment, the plates digging into tender wires.

“Any time.” Breakdown rubbed a cautious knuckle along his spinal struts, circling his wheel wells. A less self-possessed mech might’ve moaned at that. “Got any room for more?”

Knock Out pressed a hand to his stomach. His motor turned over: beneath his armor, taut cables bowed outward beneath the weight of his tank. On such a lean frame any indulgence showed.

“Been burning some rubber lately,” he began, in a tone so casual no mnemosurgeon or psychic patch would’ve sensed what roiled within him. “Putting the pedal to the metal. Training my spoiler off.”

“Uh-huh.” Breakdown squeezed Knock Out’s shoulders once more and leaned back, reaching for the Engex. “You gotta  _ try _ to get this big.”

Breakdown had guessed it in one.

For an indignant instant Knock Out regarded him: the belly spilling out of his lap, so round and so ripe; the plating strained by too much mesh and too much good eating; the plump coppery mounds wherever his armor gapped. Knock Out was seized by the urge to pinch and grab and nibble, to slap his belly to watch it jiggle, to nip at the little pad of mesh forming under his jaw—

Knock Out laughed it off, uneasily. Next to Breakdown he felt lean and hard as iron.

“Waiter. Next course.”

And slowly the courses blended into one, and the delicate strain on his stomach grew. Breakdown wiped his lips. Rubbed his back. Kept his Engex cube full.

Knock Out hiccuped, his head swimming. It hurt to snicker. “To moderation, and may it stay  _ far _ away—”

His tanks churned; he felt leaden with sleep and Engex. His armor squeaked as he moved, his abdominal plating sitting awkwardly on the pretty, tight swell of his belly.

_ Pretty. _ And it was, he thought through the fog of liquor, a gentle curve echoing his headlights and his fender. How could he hate something so shapely?

He drained his cube, shoving it at Breakdown. “ _Garcon._ _S'il vous_ please and thank you—” His Polyhexian dissolved into giggles. 

He felt glamorous; he felt scandalous, faintly criminal. The weight of his belly titillated, as if he were getting away with something.

He slurped down soups, his lips buzzing with radiation; his belly warmed, a tingle creeping through his fuel lines. The empty cubes stacked higher.

The night had been cold, he remembered—now he bathed in sweet warmth, in the glow of the habsuite’s sole light and the happy glow in his belly.

Breakdown watched him squirming. Breakdown laughed that warm, rolling laugh, and Knock Out’s head swam. Had he finished that many cubes? Surely Breakdown had eaten some.

“Open up,” rumbled Breakdown, pressing a zinc cube to his lips. Knock Out licked Breakdown’s fingers clean, his teeth raking lightly over the metal.

They kissed, sloppily. Breakdown tasted of Engex; at any angle his weight pressed down, and Knock Out’s stomach ached. Belly-to-belly they fumbled, Breakdown supporting Knock Out with one hand (“ _ careful!”). _

Until at last Knock Out was sprawled over Breakdown’s lap, letting the last cube fall from his limp and sated grip, feeling as if he’d just raced at top speed round a 500-kilometer track. Condensation trickled into his seams, cooling the burn of his fiber optics.

He felt  _ bloated. _ A new sensation.

Perhaps Breakdown felt this way  _ all the time _ . He gazed at Breakdown, at his knowing gold optics and his broad gut, and thought—

“Well,” he breathed—and it was a strain—”I’ll say, I understand how you got so chunky, big boy.”

His armor slipped as he spoke, settling into itself. It jarred a short, sharp belch.

Again Knock Out felt himself blanch.

“Med school teach you how to do this?” rumbled Breakdown, tilting his head—and before Knock Out could protest, before he could think, Breakdown’s strong hands were kneading his stomach. “Feels good, huh?”

His fingers worked in circles, rhythmic as the pulse of a rotary buffer. Breakdown had a laborer’s hands, steady and massive. Still Knock Out tensed.

“Easy there. Relax. Let ‘em out.”

His fingers found pockets of pain, kneading deep. A hiccuping belch escaped Knock Out. “Pardon—” And then, as the third slipped out, “To the Pit with it.

He felt debauched. He felt  _ sleazy. _

He felt like a Councilor.

“Y’know,” growled Breakdown, and there was altogether too much understanding in his grin. “If you wanna quit the track. They’re always looking for new lightweights in the ring.”

And for the briefest of nanocycles, Knock Out considered it.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm at deceptichubs.tumblr.com.


End file.
